


One Word and the Blink of an Eye

by thegayemu



Series: Deaf Jaskier [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Character, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Gen, Geralt and Yen are in this for like five whole seconds but whatever, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Post-mountain breakup, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, internalized ableism, no beta we die like Geralt's reputation in Blavieken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegayemu/pseuds/thegayemu
Summary: Jaskier doesn't feel the greatest when he wakes up their third day on the mountain. His situation - like his travel - quickly goes downhill from there. When he finally wakes up in a strange bed to a healer he can't hear lingering over him, he really understands just how fragile life can be.(The Deaf!Jaskier prequel.)
Series: Deaf Jaskier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039297
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	One Word and the Blink of an Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Had this one rooting around for a while, but I've been doing some spring cleaning of my WIPs to see what could be posted and this was complete. It's been sensitivity screened but not beta read, oh well. 
> 
> Not necessary to have read the earlier two fics in the series, but they do provide ~context~.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr :)](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)

When Jaskier awoke their third day on the mountain, he immediately noticed three things in the following order: one, his head was pounding so much that he wondered if he'd been intoxicated the night before. Two, the sun was far brighter than it had any right to be,  _ thank you very much _ . And three, he was entirely alone and he had no idea where the  _ fuck _ everyone else went. He decided to address these problems in the order they arose, first by grabbing his water skin and chugging it like he'd never had a drink in this life, and then by dragging himself to his feet, shrugging his lute over his shoulder, and trudging off to find the rest of their party. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done about the sun and its spiteful glow. 

He sprinted up the path they'd been following, lungs burning and ears ringing. He nearly tripped over his own feet stumbling to a halt when he spotted the dwarves, thanking the gods and asking them what was happening and babbling just to fill the silence and keep himself awake. When they were of no use he finally spotted the veritable graveyard of Reavers. Standing amongst their bodies he could feel his heart sink, and clung to the slightest thread of hope afforded to him by the absence of Geralt amongst the bloodbath. His breath shuddered past chapped lips, nausea settling into the back of his throat. 

And then Téa and Véa, who he'd literally watched plummet off a cliff no more than 24 hours ago, are behind him, and he could swear he felt his entire digestive system cartwheel as he lurched back, lute just barely caught by a shaking hand before it plummeted to the dirt. And then the dwarves come running up, and,  _ for fuck's sake, is that Borch?  _ None of this makes any sense and no one seems in too much a hurry to explain anything to him and - gods, he really doesn't feel too good. 

Geralt and Yennefer reappear (though he couldn't say he'd have been terribly disappointed if it was  _ just _ Geralt), and he's relieved, because it means a, Geralt is alive, and b, they can finally get off this gods-forsaken mountain and go back to the inn and he can get some proper rest. So he sat on a rock and he patiently waited for Geralt to finish whatever follow-up was going on between him, Yennefer, and Borch. The lute remained uncharacteristically in its case, both because he was hopeful this would be brief and because he was too busy trying to keep his eyes open and body upright to bother with it. 

When Yennefer storms off he's thankful, because now, just maybe, they can  _ finally fucking leave _ . He staggered to his feet with all the grace of a newborn doe and took a few shaky steps towards Geralt. With an exaggerated sigh he announced his presence, and whatever he was about to say catches in his throat and dies on his tongue when Geralt growls his name. He stands there and he takes it, Geralt's whole diatribe, only opening his mouth to stutter out, "that's not fair," before shrinking back into silence. He opened his mouth before promptly closing it again, swallowing back the bile threatening in the back of his throat before bidding Geralt farewell and disappearing. 

He didn't bother to check in with anyone else to fill in the gaps of that day's events. Instead, he returned to camp for just as long as it took to gingerly gather his belongings, and then set off down the mountain on his own. Originally a dull pounding, his headache had become throbbing and incessant and  _ loud _ . His legs felt hollow and his feet dragged beneath him and all he wanted to do was lie down again. He ran nonetheless, as fast as his body allowed him, the image of Geralt seeing him like that the only thing goading him on. 

It wasn't until he doubled over and vomited just beyond his boots that he took stock again, wiping his sleeve over his mouth and balancing precariously on his knees. The good news was, going downhill is much faster than going up. He was making good time, and if he didn't stop to sleep he'd be back at the base by the first light of morning. The bad news was, his headache had only gotten worse, the nausea wasn't going anywhere, and he felt far too hot and profoundly cold all at once. 

Rationally, he usually would've recognized this as his signal to stop and rest, would've pestered Geralt until the Witcher took pity on him and either let him sleep or ride Roach. But there were pieces missing from the usual formula - namely Geralt and Roach and also whatever wit he usually had about him. He couldn't even remember his journey thus far down the mountain, couldn't trace a single step he'd taken. He wasn't even all too convinced his mind still existed within his body. So he pressed on.

He did, in fact, reach the base by morning, nearly walking straight past it until a persistent neighing from Roach brought him half out of his trance. He gathered his belongings from her saddlebag with fingers that refused to cooperate, and contemplated just  _ taking _ her until the next round of retching made it clear there was no way he'd be able to ride like this. He gave her a quick pat before carrying on. His headache had now gone from bad to worse to the absolute worst he'd felt in his entire life, and he was shivering under his sweat-soaked doublet. He only made it a few more minutes before his legs finally gave way and he dropped unceremoniously to the dirt. 

He had no idea how much time had passed when he slid back into hazy awareness again, awake but hardly lucid. Hell, he wasn't really sure where he was either, or how he'd gotten there, or why he felt very close to the other side of life. Or whether the voice he heard softly calling his name was real. His eyes fluttered open, searching for the source.

"There you are," the voice breathed, relief coloring its tone. His eyes flickered around unsteadily. His head was on something plush yet firm. "Jaskier, can you hear me?" He tried harder to track the person, eventually forcing out a quiet groan that he hoped would be perceived as acknowledgement. "Easy," the voice commanded, and he finally found the source, or at least her long black hair. 

"Y… Yen…?" He drawled, clenching his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. Perhaps it was a dream. Or maybe Geralt had only used up two of the Djinn's wishes, and it was about to grant his final wish and take him off his hands. Or perhaps he was just dying.

"Shh, yes, it's me," she nearly cooed. "We're not far from town. I'm going to get you to a healer." Yep, he was  _ definitely _ dying. What a disappointingly plain death for a bard. She scooped him into her arms and he could feel every last bump and jolt as she walked. "Just stay with me." He nodded against her chest and drifted off without really meaning to.

When Jaskier woke up the first time after the mountain, he immediately noticed three things in the following order: one, he was in a strange bed. Two, he was in a strange room. And three, there was a strange man sitting in a chair by his bedside. He would've ran if he could've, but his absolute exhaustion - the fourth thing he noticed - held him in place. Instead, he tried to choke out his questions past his dry throat. When next to nothing came out he could feel the panic creeping up, and he wrestled at the blanket draped over him. This seemed to get the attention of the stranger who now lingered over him. The man's mouth moved but still no words escaped, and Jaskier panicked harder, thrusting himself into a sitting position and fumbling blindly. 

"Calm down!" The man's harried voice finally broke through, strange and far away but there nonetheless, and Jaskier settled a little. He finally took in his surroundings - jars of herbs lining the walls, damp cloth on his lap where it had presumably slid off his forehead - and came to the conclusion that the stranger was probably a healer. "Can you hear me?" The sound was muffled but his tone was urgent, as if he was yelling from another room. 

"Sort of?" He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes until a hand under his chin guided his face up. 

"My name is Marcin. I'm a healer." The man - Marcin - hung over him, mouth just inches from the side of his head. "Could you hear that?" 

"Barely." What was happening started to settle in, dread gnawing in Jaskier's gut. He laid placid and obediently still as the healer inspected him, one hand coming to rest on Jaskier's forehead and pressing two fingers into his neck with the other. Eventually, he leaned close to his ear again. 

"Close your eyes," he commanded, and Jaskier did as he was told. The healer snapped his fingers a few times in various intervals from his head, not that Jaskier was aware of this. "You can open them. I'm going to step back now. Watch my lips."

"Okay." Jaskier nodded as Marcin straightened, taking a small step back from the bed. He spoke, and Jaskier couldn't hear him. He shook his head vehemently, eyes widening with fear again. 

"Focus." Wait,  _ fuck _ , he couldn't really hear him but he understood anyway. "Got it?" He bobbed his head. "Good. You're lipreading." Finally, summoning every last ounce of courage he had left in him, Jaskier asked the question on the tip of his tongue.

"Why can't I hear?" He fidgeted with the blanket in his lap. His words felt thick and cumbersome on his leaden tongue, and though he couldn't hear it he could only imagine how horrendously fumbling and uncertain he sounded. 

"Do you know common sign?" 

"No."  _ Get to the point. _

"Do you think you'll be able to keep up with lipreading?" 

"I think so." Marcin returned to the chair next to the bed, shifting it so Jaskier could get a good view of his face.

"You were ill," he began, and snapshots of Jaskier's journey down the mountain flooded his brain. "By the time someone brought you in you were very unwell. You had a high fever." Fever, right. Jaskier definitely remembered that. "You had an infection in your brain." That sounded awfully serious, his brain frying away in his skull like an egg on a skillet. "I gave you herbs to lower your temperature and ease the swelling, but you had to fight it on your own." Well, he sure did feel like he'd been in a fight. 

"Why. Can't. I. Hear?" He repeated persistently. If he was being quite honest, he didn't particularly care about what had happened or how sick he was. He just wanted the answer to this one, very pressing question. 

"Unfortunately, that is not uncommon," Marcin sighed. "Hearing loss is one of the most prevalent complications of brain fever."  _ Loss _ . Loss sounded permanent, forever, and Jaskier didn't like it.

"Will it go away?" He was clinging to the slightest thread of hope, and it served him better if Marcin just went ahead and cut it already.

"No. Some of your hearing might come back, but most will likely be permanent." Questions buzzed like gnats in Jaskier's tired mind.  _ How will I sing, or play, or compose? How will I earn coin or be able to feed myself? What good is a bard without his hearing? _

"So that's it, I'm deaf?" The healer nodded.  _ Deaf _ . It felt like a life sentence; gods, it felt like  _ death _ . His entire life changed in one word and the blink of an eye. "Now what?" 

"Well, it seems you already have a fair handle on lipreading; I suppose your vocal training has helped with that."  _ Vocal training that was now otherwise useless _ , Jaskier thought. "My recommendation is that you go home - or somewhere safe - learn common sign, and be sure to consult with a healer to ensure your recovery." 

"Okay, right, so when can I leave?" He felt antsy, head spinning like a hog on a spit. His calves twitched, and if he could he'd do what he always did in the face of adversity -  _ run. _

"Where will you be going?" Jaskier had to consider this for a moment. A few days ago, his answer would've been wherever Geralt went next. But that evidently was not going to happen. 

"Oxenfurt," he settled finally. Surely the Academy would still take him in; he'd met both deaf faculty and students before. 

"That's quite a journey. You should rest for a few more days," Marcin replied. "And be sure to stop frequently along your way. You might not survive a relapse." He was afraid he might not survive  _ this _ , but quickly pushed the fear aside.

Jaskier stayed in Caingorn per Marcin's recommendation, gradually building up his strength. By the next day the last vestiges of his fever had disappeared, and the dull headaches eased with it. By the end of a week, he was going on long walks through the town and eating full meals. After one last clearance from the healer, he finally left.

When Jaskier at long last set off for Oxenfurt, he immediately noticed three things: one, he was utterly and abjectly terrified of what the future had in store for him. Two, he wouldn’t know for weeks, if not months, whether the entire career he’d built for himself over the past several decades had been ground to a halt. And three, he’d be okay; he certainly didn’t survive all of that just to wallow for the rest of his life. He’d figure it out. He always did.

**Author's Note:**

> This whole series has been heavily influenced by my lovely friend/sensitivity reader, thus the analogue for meningitis. Tried my best to be scientifically and historically accurate while still taking dramatic liberties. 
> 
> I really enjoy writing Deaf!Jaskier, so if you have any ideas for him, feel free to drop an ask over at [my tumblr](https://brasskier.tumblr.com/)


End file.
